Frisbee
by Jay Nice
Summary: It's one of those rare occasions in which John lets the boys have a sense of normalcy by taking them to the public park. However, things don't always go according to plan, now do they? Hurt!Dean, pre-series, weechesters.


It's one of the rare occasions in which Dad allows them some free time, so Dean is thrilled. Beyond thrilled, actually. Dad's busy reading the local tabloids on the park bench—though Dean doesn't quite understand why 'cause tabloids are always a bunch of crap—and he and Sam are playing frisbee underneath the great oak trees. Sammy's only five, so he doesn't quite know how to throw the disc properly yet, but Dean can tell that he's getting there. For the clumsy ball of energy that Sam is, his aim is pretty on spot, though Dean can't understand how he can even see his target through all that girly hair. He hasn't caught the flying disc yet, though he cheers ecstatically whenever he retrieved it from the grass, acting as if he'd scored the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. Dean can't help but smile each time that happens, hit with a nostalgic pang of normalcy. He remembers tossing around a football with Dad when he was four, and the enthusiasm that came with having a new brother that _he_ could teach to play football too. They haven't quite gotten to football yet, Dean figures it's best to perfect his little brother's aim with something easier to catch and throw, but they'll get there some day. Stealing a glance at Dad, who looks deeply immersed into whatever he's reading about, Dean think that maybe they can all play football together when that day comes.

"Dean! Look, I'm gonna throw it!" Sam shouts at the top of his lungs. Dean can see his little cheeks puffed out, flushed against the cool autumn wind, and chuckles at his brother's striking similarity to a chipmunk in that moment. Sam still has some baby pudge, though he's growing out of it with every year. Someday he'll be lean and muscular, like Dad is and like Dean will eventually be. The hunting life leaves no room for pudge.

"Slug it at me, Sammy!" Dean encourages, a wide smile gracing his face at the look of pure joy running through Sam's eyes. He motions to himself, feeling like an air traffic control man waving in a plane.

Sam sticks out his tongue in concentration, waving his wrist with the frisbee in hand just the way Dean showed him to. He's testing out the waters, set on making this throw the best one yet. Stepping back, the kid goes through the motions slowly before flinging his wrist, sending the black disc soaring through the air in what seems like a perfect arc. It's just about to fall short of where Dean's standing, so he runs forward so that he can catch it.

Or at least, he _was_ going to catch it, but the winds decided just then to blow a huge gust through the park. It hits the underside of the frisbee, sending it veering wildly to the left. Dean tries to follow it, arms outstretched because he is going to catch his baby brother's amazing throw, but then it lands in one of the tree with a faint rustling sound.

"No!" Sam wails, throwing up angry, balled fists. He scampers over to the tree and stands beside Dean, whimpering, "How do we get it out?"

Dean looks to Dad, but the older man hasn't even stirred at his youngest's cry of despair. His first instinct is to ask Dad if he can retrieve the frisbee, but Dad has that serious face on that he only reserves for research. Dean doesn't know what possible research can be in the current magazine he's reading—which proudly states " _Lose your extra twenty pounds using these simple dietary tips!_ " and " _Which hot celebs are single now and why you need to know!_ "—but he knows better than to disturb Dad when he's got the alleged "research face" on.

"I'll climb the tree and get it," Dean decides. It's an oak tree, so the branches are sturdy enough to hold him. In fact, he sees a clear pathway lined up to where the flying disc sits, about fifteen feet above the ground.

Dean swallows, paling slightly. Fifteen feet? He's never necessarily been a huge fan of heights, and _boy_ if the frisbee isn't high up. Maybe he _should_ take the risk and interrupt Dad…

But then Sam's clinging to his arm, eyes wide with hope and unyielding admiration for his big brother. Dean hates seeing those things there, because Sam's projecting him as an invincible hero, when in reality he's scared to death. "You'll really do that?" Sam squeaks, pulling out what was known as the infamous Sam Winchester puppy dog face. No one can turn down the wide eyes, the trembling, stuck-out lower lip, and the look as if he's going to burst into tears if he doesn't get his way. Dean knows he won't really do that, but it sure works.

"Yeah," Dean replies, voice coming out much more smoothly than he expects it to. He takes in a few shuddering breaths, horrible visions of what can happen if he falls clouding his vision. Making sure that Dad hasn't chosen this moment to butt in and convince Dean of doing something that was _insanely_ stupid, Dean begins his ascent up the tree.

It isn't too bad to start off with, honestly. Dean's boots give him the reaction he needs to climb, and the branch that he's on is sloped at a gentle angle so that it takes him minimal effort to shimmy his way up it. The frisbee is on one of the outer branches, dangling precariously from a thinner branch. Dean hopes he'll be able to reach it from the safer branch that he's on, because it looks as if it'll snap under his weight.

Dean grunts, forcing himself not to look down because the ground is a long ways down now and he imagines he'll throw up if he thinks about it too much. He's crawling on the branch now, legs straddling it and slipping carefully over the smaller branches so that he doesn't lean the wrong way and fall.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Dean sees the frisbee not four feet in front of him. He scoots closer slightly, inhaling sharply when he's forced to release a hand from its death grip on the tree so that he can reach out and grab the disc. He leans forward, arm outstretched as far as it can go, but he's still short of the frisbee. Painfully aware of the branch becoming thinner and thinner as he advances, Dean makes one last lunge forward, crying out in satisfaction when his fingers grab the cool plastic of the flying disc. He vaguely hears Sammy's call of affirmation below him and grins, knowing that all of this was worth it.

Then he hears a crack sound like splintering wood, and his whole world falls from under him.

He may have screamed; he doesn't remember. All he can feel is falling on his stomach, wrists taking the blunt of the fall so that his head doesn't smack the grassy floor, and another sickening crack.

The second crack is less identifiable. One it resounds, Dean feels like the world is in a haze. Everything's confusing and blurry and are those tears in his eyes?

 _Why...?_

Then he feels a twinge in his left arm and nearly gags when the odd numbness vanishes and he can feel again. Agonizing pain rips through his entire arm and he collapses on his side, cradling the wrist to his chest as he chokes out some incoherent sounds. The world is still a blurry mess, but he doesn't care because the pain is overriding all his senses in such a way that he feels like he's trapped inside his own body with only pain receptors functioning properly. He would probably be puking his guts out right now if not for his compromising situation, because the pain is throbbing its way through his whole body and he wants to scream or cry or throw up to get it all out.

"Da-ad," he chokes meekly, voice hitching from either the tears that are spilling out or the pain; he doesn't know which.

He feels warm, gloved hands on him and isn't surprised when even the gentle touch elicits a pained yelp. He can hear in this instant, and Dad's voice comes through, saying in a panicky tone, "Hey, it's okay Dean-o. It's all right, we're gonna get you to the hospital, it's all right, you'll be okay."

Dad sounds worried, which makes Dean worried. He can feel himself being lifted into the air, which immediately makes him writhe, only wishing to be on the ground, because the last time he was in the air didn't end to well, if he's remembering the past five minutes correctly. "Lemme… go…," Dean gasps, his injured arm being jostled even more as he attempts to get away. He needs solid ground beneath his feet, just like he needs to vomit and he needs his arm to stop moving because it friggin' _hurts_.

"Dean, moving will only make it worse," Dad whispers into his ears, holding Dean bridal style as he slowly makes his way to the car. "You'll be okay, I promise."

Dad continues to murmur soft nuances, and Dean finds himself relaxing slightly, though his arm is still killing him. He blinks, and then they're in the Impala, driving at high speeds down the road. Sammy is crying in the back.

Dean swallows down a surge of nausea that pulses through his body. "Dad," he rasps, right arm wrapped tightly around the left, "it hurts."

Dad's eyes flicker over to Dean in what seems like an anxious manner and says, "I know, kiddo. I'm driving as fast as I can."

Sam stops his crying at the sound of Dad and Dean conversing and leans forward in his seat. "Dean, I'm so sorry for throwing it in the tree, now you're hurt and Daddy's bringing you to the _hospital_ and it's all my fault and they may take your arm off cause you fell from so high up!"

Dean tries to follow his brother's tangent, he really does, but many of his words are swirling together because the pain is still addling his brain and he still wants to throw up that Mac n' Cheese he ate earlier. "I'm… okay, Sammy," Dean says, voice ridden with the pain and frigid of it all. "Just think about it, you can sign my cast when I get it!"

Sammy seems to perk up at that. "You mean I get to practice how you showed me to write my name on your _arm_?"

Dean let's out a breathless chuckle. "Yeah, dude. Can you tell me how you do it again?"

Dean can almost see Sam's eyes light up at the chance to demonstrate his skills. Dean has been teaching him how to write his name, and the little boy has been jumping at the opportunity to learn something and be more like Dean. "So first you draw a swiggly snake, and that's the 'S'! Then you draw a teepee hut, and a little line through it…"

Dean winks at Dad, though in his misery it probably looks like a disoriented blink. He leans his head against the cool glass of the rumbling Impala, holding his wrist dearly. He sees Dad smiling at him through the corner of his eyes, and sighs contentedly. His arm may be about to fall off, but at least he's got Dad to take care of him.

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